


I wasn't made for you, and you weren't made for me.

by lilllac



Category: Percy Jackson and the Olympians - Rick Riordan, The Heroes of Olympus - Rick Riordan
Genre: F/M, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Friendship, piper and percy are buddies and they kiss sometimes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-14
Updated: 2020-08-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 05:22:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,270
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25888036
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilllac/pseuds/lilllac
Summary: Kissing Piper is always a surreal experience. This is what you think of when her fingers lightly caress your jaw, making your skin shiver, a trembling on your lower lip, while your eyes are glazed over hers. It's three o'clock in the afternoon or so, but the day is cloudy, cold, and damp, and her eyes are frighteningly purple. It is not normal, you know. No one should be this addictive.title taken from the song best friend by rex orange county.
Relationships: Percy Jackson/Piper McLean
Comments: 2
Kudos: 42





	I wasn't made for you, and you weren't made for me.

**Author's Note:**

> Writting percy jackson rarepairs and kinda addicting tbh.  
> Enlgish is not my first language, so I apologize for any mistakes to be found! Hope it's enjoyable.

You don’t understand why she waits for Sally to leave, closing the bedroom door behind her, the lock turning in the silence that her “good night to you two” left behind, before finally looking at you, sideways, without turning her face, and extending her lips in a half-smile. Piper's profile is so absurdly beautiful that it feels unfair. Almost surreal. Nothing so perfectly gorgeous, as if all the parts had been made to measure, could exist.

If there is a limited amount of poetry in the world, you believe that Piper stole all the verses for herself. 

It's late, you know, but the shutters in the apartment are open and the light that comes from the streetlamps on passes through the bluish, frosted glass and bathes you in a diluted, neon gloom, and you think how hilarious - and intoxicating - it is that something so mundane seems cinematic, rehearsed, painted.

_ (There is certainly an irony here. But you are too distracted to notice it). _

The two of you are alone in the room now, sitting on the carpet, back against the upholstery, and empty pizza box on the coffee table. The TV is still on, but there is no sound. You raise the hand that was propped up on one of your bent knees and turn up the volume until the midnight news anchor's voice fills the entire room. Loud enough to reach Sally.

There is a moment of tension, like a thread stretched to its maximum, vibrating in the void, about to burst, or a glass whose water defies gravity, insisting on not spilling over the edge. You two are holding on, why, exactly, you don't understand. But the air between you seems dense, palpable, and when Piper takes a deep breath, you look at her collarbone, the way even in coppery skin you can see the beginnings of a blush.

It is not surprising that she is the first to move. For all your courage, you are still a strangely shy boy when it comes to girls (or boys).

Piper is patient, but not unnerving. She doesn't slide her hand over the carpet until she's touching your pinky, or looks at you for minutes on end, waiting for a reaction. She just moves forward.

The sounds mix in the back of your head. The newspaper, the cars outside, the noise of the air heater. Everything is in the background when you wrap your arms around her back and bring her closer.

Kissing Piper is always a surreal experience. This is what you think of when her fingers lightly caress your jaw, making your skin shiver, a trembling on your lower lip, while your eyes are glazed over hers. It's three o'clock in the afternoon or so, but the day is cloudy, cold, and damp, and her eyes are frighteningly purple. It is not normal, you know. No one should be this addictive.

Piper rubs her nose lightly over yours and you feel her mint breath, familiar. It is a little musky because you were just having vanilla ice cream (the empty bowls are still on the arm of the sofa, threatening to fall at any moment). The console control vibrates on your lap, warning you that a new game has started, but you don't have the willpower to look away, towards the TV. You don't even know if you want to.

"Won't you play?" Piper asks, with a chuckle.

You're the one to put your mouths together this time. She is surprised for a moment. The hand that she had on your chin goes up to your hair, and you feel it strolling through the rings of dark threads, gently, as if she is lost in them. It's kind of uncomfortable, like this, with her on her knees on the floor and you lying on the couch, but if the price to pay for comfort is getting away, you're content to fall asleep like this. 

Piper doesn't kiss greedily. She doesn't force anything, doesn't bite, doesn't speed up the pace. She seems to like kissing just for the sake of it. She does it without haste, without anguish, taking advantage of every second fully aware that it will not be the last. And it won't, you know, too. If Piper wants to, you can kiss her until the breathlessness burns your lungs, and then some more.

When she kisses you like that, it's hard to remember exactly where you are. Everything disappears. All that exists is Piper, Piper, Piper. Piper and her vanilla mint kiss, her delicate hands pulling you close, her breath against yours.

So, when she walks away, you need a moment to regain consciousness.

The front door opens. Sally's hair is a little wet, but not soaked. The fabric bags with the purchases pressed against her chest. She looks at the both of you for a second and then sighs, but there is amusement in her voice:

"I hope you haven't eaten all the ice cream".

Piper laughs, showing her gums and her dimples, and, out of breath, you feel your chest plummet. She gets up to help your mother, picking up one of the bags, and then it's your turn. You're still little dizzy, weak knees, but you manage to do everything on autopilot.

Later, when you're all eating pasta and watching the baseball game, Piper leans over her chair to pick up the grated cheese, saying something to Sally, and you can smell her perfume.

You think she doesn't love you. Not the way she's loved other people, at least. Not in that abrasive, hungry way that most of Aphrodite's children seem to love. A feeling that completely erodes them, leaving nothing left.

Piper loves you more simply. She loves you because you pick her up at the airport with an iced tea already in hand and because you help her up when she falls off the climbing wall. She loves you when you open your bedroom door at eight in the morning, shaggy hair, and cartoon shorts, and she loves you when you roll over in bed, your whole body shaking with another nightmare.

Piper purely loves you, it seems. A safer kind of love. A kind of love that won't break your hearts.

It is the best you ask for from her. It is the best love she has to offer.

People ask about you. It is hard not to notice the boy with the wild, almost manic look, mysterious tattoos, and the resting bitch face, walking with his fingers intertwined with those of the most beautiful girl in the city. You see the way people in the stands look at her, absurdly, and wonder if that is also the look in  _ your  _ eyes and the two of you are alone. You are not jealous, you notice. Your heart no longer has room for that green monster. But you like to mess with people, and when the referee whistles, you leave your skateboard still rolling on the board and get up on the wall to leave a kiss on her mouth.

Piper laughs. Not because she's in love, but because she knows what you're doing. And then, she kisses you back.

You go to the mall to buy crap and watch bad movies. Piper demands a "scout oath" from you before she tells you any rotten rumors about any celebrity in the movie you watched. You find out about the love affairs of people you don't know and find that the smell of mustard makes Piper sick.

In the arcade, you lose to her in table hockey, which is not that surprising. You do not walk hand in hand nor kiss. Today, you're just friends. She drags you to a bookstore and shows you a collection of adaptations of classics into comic books. Buys a box of them, and you take it home with you. 

You put the gift along with the others - a miniature enameled shark, a snow globe, and a lot of other things - on your shelf, and then you make microwave popcorn and play video games until Sally comes home from work.

On TV, one of Ana Karenina's seven hundred remakes is playing. Sally likes the movie, and you like your mom, so, very obediently, you three watch the movie. When the dance scene begins, however, Piper gets up, extends a hand, and laughs.

You turn red.

"I don't dance," you protests, feeling your muscles tense.

"I know," she says. And you cannot say what the exact meaning of that is.

Sally records you both in vertical phone mode, laughing, and saying how cute you are. It is Piper who leads the dance, with a hand on your er waist, and her eyes sparkling, having fun for making you so ashamed. But eventually, you laugh too. You're the only ones here. You're safe.

When Piper tries to lift you in the air, you trip and fall on the couch, over Sally. She caresses both of your faces.o

And then, when the movie is over, Piper spreads a set of sheets on your bedroom floor, turns on the lamp that makes the walls like a starry sky, and you talk about everything, and nothing, until she can hear you snoring, from your bed, and decides to sleep too. You don't dream of her voice, and the next day, she's gone, but you'll see each other on the weekend, so there's not even time to miss her.

It's pouring rain outside, thunder and everything, while you wait for the taxi to come around and pick you up at the mall exit. You're sitting on wooden benches, her hands inside your sweatshirt because she is shivering from the cold, her head resting on your shoulder, and her hair smells like coconut shampoo. She is talking about an alternative rock concert that will take place over the weekend, but your head is distant. It's all so ...  _ familiar _ . Comfortable. Your throat closes when you realize:

"I think you're my best friend".

She stops talking suddenly and seems to mull over the words. You are afraid that they will carry more weight than you wanted to give them, but you will not withdraw what you said. Anxiety, however, makes you drum your fingers where they were resting on her hip.

But then, she laughs.

"Does Rachel know about this?"

"Another type of best friend," you mumble.

"I didn't know there were  _ types  _ of best friends " she teases, patting your shoulder with hers, but you hug her a little bit tighter. 

You also don't know there are. If they don't exist, they  _ should _ . What you feel for Rachel is pure, completely platonic. You need her the way she needs you - a reminder that there is another world, magical for her, mundane for you. When you hug her, all you want to do is spin her in the air, squeeze her until she is out of breath from laughing.

But with Piper it is different. She will never break your heart. She will never ask you out, and although she calls Sally a  _ mother-in-law _ , she doesn't believe that what you have is more than it actually is. She knows your limits, and you know hers. You know she likes 50s soundtracks and picture books. That she feels cold very easily but can handle any hot sauce that you could put in her vegan dishes. You know that she laughs until she cries and that this is the only time she sheds tears.

You memorized the feel of her mouth on yours. Her scent, the taste of green tea. You have learned to differentiate the touch of each of her fingers on your skin, walking through your hair, your neck. You learned to hold her in your arms just as easily as you learned to hold a sword.e

You know you like this life. You know you like that lethargic, lazy passion. You know that it is not shallow, but that it will not consume you entirely. With Piper, there will always be a part of you that will be yours alone.

You especially like to know that you don't love her. At least not in the way you've loved other people.

"Okay, then," she says good-naturedly. The rain is splattering on the pavement, splashing on her jeans, and the dull light that crosses the clouds makes her eyes look brown, like chocolate. "So you're mine, too".

Her fingers grab your shirt, inside your sweatshirt, when she kisses you. It's not urgent. It is not passionate. It's a natural, docile fit, and you take a deep breath, smelling the rain and her light lipstick. She deepens the kiss and your taxi parks on the sidewalk.

She snuggles up to your shoulder when you enter, rubbing a hand over her jeans to warm her up and smiling charmingly at the driver. The other hand is intertwined with yours, above your knee. And then, as if only then had she remembered:

"Oh, but don't say anything to Leo, alright?".

You laugh, and so does she. The driver raises an eyebrow in the rearview mirror. You know what she is thinking. But there is nothing impure about you. There's nothing  _ wrong _ . With Piper, the air feels clean, and the rain looks harmless. You didn't even know it was possible.

During the whole way back, you trace her arm with your fingertips, drawing tridents and birds. She is kissing you as soon as you open the door to the empty apartment. The rain echoes outside, silencing the rest of the world, and, smiling against her mouth, you focus on yours.


End file.
